Antarian Intrigue
by Sweet Darkling
Summary: Royal 4. For a country and society to collapse, one dramatic event isn't necessary. Small choices, petty jealousies, confused emotions... Every tiny insignificant choice can lead to devastating consequences and that's just what happened.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer****:** I don't own Roswell.

**Author's Note****:** This is my companion to Unnatural Born Leaders, explaining what happened in Antar and how things fell apart. It'll be an adjunct to some of the future chapters of Unnatural Born Leaders but you don't need to read either of them to enjoy just the one. I hope you guys like this – this is just the prologue, kind of setting the scene for what happens later on and explaining some of the emotions, etc. This might be a little dull, few action, but it does get a lot more personal and action-y later on. It was sort of necessary to explain some of the political alliances that get formed later on. Hope you guys like it, enjoy it all!

* * *

**Antarian Intrigue**

**I**

The day the heir to the Antarian throne died there wasn't widespread devastation or weeping, misery or overwhelming grief passing through the lands; nor was there outward celebration. That would have been tasteless and cruel towards the Antarian Royal Family, but most of his subjects did feel relieved. He hadn't been liked. He tended to wear a smirk, he was an outrageous flirt, he had a terrible reputation with women _and_ men alike, he spent weeks on end inebriated and even if he had charm, it didn't save him from his own reputation.

His family was devastated. His little sister, who had loved him and idolised him, cried for days. His baby brother, who only knew him as someone that gave him treats and little random acts of kindness, mourned him. His parents, knowing of all his good as well as all of his flaws, were desolated. His friends grieved for the loss of a friend who would come through no matter what, who would be ready for a laugh and equally ready to console a hurting friend. His wife lost a loving husband who had, despite his reputation, remained faithful to her. They mourned him as none of his subjects did.

The diplomats lamented their loss too. Whatever image the public may have had of the heir, their own opinion had been high. He had been gifted, exceptionally so. Without being obstinate or stubborn, he had been persistent about what he had demanded. He had held no illusions about his own world or theirs, about their respective standings and the sway of the powers. He had been willing to support missions that would advance his own world's powers, remained loyal to the worlds that had been loyal to him, but had also had a strong shrewd streak in him that had made him astute and a force to be reckoned with. Yes, as a diplomat for his mother, he would be difficult to replace, if not nigh impossible. They mourned in public, as did the Antarian subjects and the royal family and his friends. But they also mourned in private, like his family and his friends did; the public looked forward to a different ruler, one that would not give them cause to blush or feel shame.

The day of the burning came. It had taken days of preparation, of security being tightened and timings arranged, appropriate clothes made and suitable flowers ordered and it was by the sea that the burning was to take place.

His parents took his body to the place as dawn broke, surrounded by the guards assigned to them this day and the personal servants who had loved a most mischievous prince. Tears were already slipping down the Queen's cheeks silently as her husband stared down at his dead son's face blankly. Their two other children arrived next; the younger one hushed and overawed, the older child with trembling lips and poorly concealed sniffles.

The second sun had risen when the diplomats arrived, sombre, respectful and mourning. He had been laid out by now, dressed in clothes of vibrant colours, the kind he had loved to wear and the public had deprecated. (After all, how could one take him seriously when he wore clothes of such bright colours when many others wore subdued colours like purple and red and green and silver?) The logs were being placed around him and the lump seemed to be choking his sister, as sobs rather than sniffles now escaped her lips.

Some of the public arrived soon after, a significant number of them arriving out of consideration. The other members of public that came had some inexplicable desire to see royalty, to see the heir, albeit in death. Others were merely there for show.

And several hours after the public had arrived, his friends arrived, with his widow. They were watched with great interest by those who had seen them afar at most, others who had seen them only from images dispatched as the general _knosel_ that each member of the planet was entitled to. They scrutinised the friends, wondering who would retain their influence and power when the new heir came into his own, appraising who would change their lifestyles, now that the corrupting influence of the prince was removed. Others focused on the beautiful widow, face impassive and her carriage graceful, pitying her for all that she had presumably suffered when married to such a blemish to society as the prince and relieved for her sake that she had to endure it no longer.

Two other pairs of eyes watched them closely; a pair of dark eyes that thought a few of them looked vaguely familiar from the occasional visits they had made with his brother. A slightly older pair, red-rimmed, watched them closely, recognising several of them as friends that her brother had been close to, had brought home repeatedly and had introduced to her. She recognised the one with the silver hair, the one who made really funny jokes in that dry and sarcastic way she had tried to copy and failed at. She recognised the blonde girl by his side, the one who always looked a little sad but who had always smiled sweetly at her and had, on more than one occasion, given her sage advice. There was the one with the dark green hair that looked inky in dark with the charming smile and the even more charming being, and just looking at him, his eyes dark and his lips set into a thin line, her hearts began to beat a little faster. He'd always teased her, sometimes flicking her cheek with a careless finger, sometimes offering her wholesome compliments that frequently brought blushes to her cheeks and left her wondering just how serious he had been. He didn't look at her once, his eyes trained on where he lay, dressed in flamboyant colours and surrounded by dry wood of differing shades and origins. Her eyes rested on the widow, her eyes wide and green and dry, completely dry. For minutes, as people shuffled tiredly or nervously, as her parents continued to look only at the body lying down, she looked at the widow, dressed ever so elegantly and ever so expensively, the white of her skin accentuated by the white mourning clothes she wore.

And then, the words were whispered, along with the prayers and the fire was set alight by the hands of the parents. She was staring at her brother now, at what her brother had been and could have been. They stayed there for hours, as the first sun set and then the second, as the first moon rose, the second. And, before the third moon had risen, the fire had finally burnt itself out and she turned her eyes to the widow again, still standing, still looking impassively at where the fire had been slowly burning lower and lower with beautiful, dry green eyes. It was at that moment, looking at those beautiful eyes looking at what her brother had been that all of her pain and desolation, her loneliness and longing, solidified into one emotion – hatred.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer****: **I don't own Roswell or the characters I have borrowed from Cowboy Bebop.

**Author's Note****:** I hope you guys like this chapter. Initially, I had the concept of chapter one and that was it. I imagined that the disasters of Antar would be unlikely to happen unless there was a catalyst, such as the actual heir dying and someone not trained to be king having to take his place (such as what happened with Charles I in English history). In addition, I wanted to see how and why Vilandra could come to align herself with Khivar rather than her own brother and this is laying all of the foundations for that – how Vilandra first met Khivar and the complex emotions and intricacies that led to Antar's downfall. I hope you guys enjoy this – I tried not to add too many characters in this chapter; the next chapter will focus on Zan and his newfound role as the heir.

* * *

**Antarian Intrigue**

**Chapter II**

It had been a miserable day and a miserable night, so, for the first time, Vilandra wasn't awakened at the usual designated time. When she woke up, the day after the Burning, both suns were in the sky and she still felt miserable. It hadn't felt real. She'd known that her brother had died but until she had seen his body, seen it burn, it had been an abstract concept more than reality.

And now she had to endure company. The widow – the one who _hadn't_ cried_ at all _– was staying here, along with some of her brother's friends and some of the more exalted diplomats. And Vilandra didn't have the energy to be a damn hostess. Her _brother_ had died – why didn't anyone appear to _understand_ that?

Regardless, she was dressed and groomed, ready to meet the guests, in a remarkably short period of time. There was a lull in conversation as she entered the room, where her parents were entertaining the company, and in days past, Vilandra would have wondered, hoped, that the lull was because she looked so beautiful or she may have worried that it was due to an off appearance. Today, she merely considered it to be rude.

The conversations resumed and Vilandra, sitting in the corner where familiar friends of her brother sat, was able to take stock of the people. Aside from those she knew fairly well, sitting next to her, there were young people who had clearly been friendly with her brother and the older people, who were close to her parents. Inadvertently, her eyes were drawn to the widow – _Megudee_. Like before, her eyes remained dry and if she looked a little pale, it was offset by the conversation she was participating in without any obvious distress, her hands flitting here and there. It looked wrong.

There were less than a handful of people that seemed affected by her brother's death at all. The green-haired guy, _Koiven,_ was sitting next to Megudee, his smile forced and his eyes lacking the humour that had seemed innate in them before. The blonde woman was there, her blue eyes red-rimmed. Her misery was reflective of how Vilandra currently felt; next to her, tightly holding her hand was the grey-haired guy, his lips drawn into a thin line. Nobody else seemed to be mourning, no signs of distress on their faces and it sickened her; they _all_ sickened her.

She blinked, as she found a cup of tea being held before her. Looking up, following the hand to the arm to the shoulder and the face, she found one of brother's oldest friends standing there, a mixture of sympathy and understanding within his expression. Nodding her thanks, she accepted the cup of tea for what it was – an example of camaraderie.

"Hello," she murmured demurely, too depressed to express any form of enthusiasm.

"Hi," He replied, with a wry smile.

"Thank you for the tea, Khivar," She murmured, feeling her mood lighten slightly. Misery, it seemed, loved company, if that company was sympathetic.

"It will give your hands something to do, other than destroying your clothes," He replied softly, his smile a lot more amused this time as Vilandra looked down at her dress guiltily. "I don't think anyone noticed," he reassured her.

"No, they seem very absorbed in their own conversations," She was unable to keep the bitterness completely out of her voice.

"It's merely manners," He said, having observed her quick glance at Megudee, now sitting still and listening with rapt attention to a gentleman next to her. "She did care about him deeply and she will miss him."

There was a slight inflexion in his voice that didn't go unnoticed by Vilandra, and she looked up quickly at him, before turning an intent stare at Megudee. The words sounded wrong, the intonation was slightly off and Vilandra, always a fan of puzzles, and with her newfound hatred of the purple-haired widow, was more than content to focus her energy on dissecting Khivar's words and their implication than to spend more of it thinking about her dead brother.

_She _will_ miss him_...which implied that she didn't. And her actions were surely proving this idea, talking animatedly with those around her. _She _did_ care about him deeply_... The implication brought out a gasp from within her lips and a lump to her throat. The idea was _horrendous_. She might hate the widow for not caring enough but even she couldn't already have past the mourning, could she? But as Vilandra watched her, noting how the gentleman to her right touched her arm every so often, the intimate glances they seemed to share, the way she seemed to lean in towards him...

It sickened her. It was inappropriate. It was _worse_ than inappropriate and Vilandra decided that she would do something about it. There was only a year left before she could be officially presented in the courts and once she hit the political circles, she would _destroy_ this pathetic, gauche girl that her brother had clearly married out of pity. She would make this girl feel as out of place as she obviously was, she would publicise all of her shortcomings and if the political humiliation was insufficient to get rid of this heartless wench, she would just have to resort to exposing her vulgar, overactive private life.

So intent was she on Megudee's impending ostracism that she was unaware of Khivar's eyes on her face, a sardonic curl to his lips until he murmured, "Plotting and planning?" sotto voce.

She turned to him, startled, her youthful and inexperienced eyes only perceiving sympathy. "Maybe?"

"Let me know if I can be of any help," he returned a conspiratorial smile.

"You might have to wait a year," she replied, far more playfully than she felt.

"You are," His voice was low, his gaze intense, each word carefully and emphatically enunciated, "worth the wait."

She felt a rich blush rise and she turned away resolutely from him. It never occurred to her to compare her behaviour to Megudee's, never deeming what had now amounted to flirtation as inappropriate when the slightest hint of such in others had driven her to ire.

She was young and inexperienced. She saw what was on the surface, unable and sometimes unwilling to look at what rested beneath. Her brother's death had jolted her and devastated her in way she couldn't fully comprehend right now, turning these emotions towards anger, which was much easier for her to handle. Never recognising it for what it was, she found an easy scapegoat in the form of the widow. And Khivar, the only person who openly acknowledged and even encouraged such juvenile coping mechanisms, she considered him an ally, even a friend. And this whole time, she ignorant of just how skilled he was with the turn of words and oblivious to the subtle machinations he employed in influencing her, blind to the eyes of her father and mother who covertly watched as they talked and who hid their concerns.


End file.
